


One, Two

by kinpika



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Double Penetration, HAPPY BIRTHDAY RYOUMA, Isn't it great that replicate is a thing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Using skills for the wrong purpose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:18:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6713869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> For a moment, Marx wonders if Ryouma had been sleeping, until the front of his shirt was grabbed, and he is pulled the rest of the way in, door shutting behind him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	One, Two

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday my lobster boy

Marx did not allow himself to second guess this decision. It would be, perhaps, horribly embarrassing proposing such a thing, but it was what he wanted. What they _both_ wanted, although Marx knew that Ryouma would simply deflect anything to do with it. He was far too proud to admit that he truly wanted what had been suggested in passing — and not even by either of them! But that was for later, much later, when they were both able to see each other in private. Now, was the first part, something he had to steel himself through first.

Stopping himself from grinding his teeth, Marx raised a hand to knock on the door. They had managed to capture a fortress, and it was some relief for many of their soldiers. A small blessing, to have something in the way of a bed other than a sheet over rocks. Marx would not say he was above such things, but his back was starting to tell him otherwise.

“Come in.”

Slowly, he opens the door, a hand behind his back in an attempt to hide the little parcel. There was not much in the way of the fancy wrapping paper, having been only through smaller towns (and some places could have been considered lesser than that). Even the tie was a strip of leather, salvaged because of how gold had seemed to have been brushed over it. Whilst Marx had admitted to Sakura who had helped him he was unsure of what to do, she had been nothing but encouraging, wrapping the present carefully for him, deft hands sealing it almost perfectly.

Perhaps, the way Ryouma’s lips curve, a grin slowly overtaking his face, makes Marx feel a little lighter. Loosening his grip on the present just a fraction, he does not find the situation as intimidating. With a step into the room, Marx shuts the door slowly behind himself, thinking through several different outcomes. 

“I was informed that it was your birthday today,” he starts, simply, walking into the room with a careful gait. Marx would not deny he still expected some sort of rejection, even now. Even after all the time they had been together. Ryouma simply laughs, and moves to stand. 

For someone who was rarely without some sort of armament around the camp, seeing Ryouma in simple dress, seated on the floor with what looked like a brush in hand, it was almost too personal. Yet Ryouma stood in such a way that he exposed absolutely nothing, far too well practiced. “Did my siblings tell you?” he questions, feet slapping against stone. It was odd to see him without those strange socks of his. “I must admit, I am a little surprised.”

Marx did not feel like he should have smiled, but something in Ryouma’s expression has his own soften. “I had asked Princess Sakura several weeks ago.” Admitting such a thing was like telling Ryouma a secret he was not supposed to tell, but Ryouma laughs, not a trace of offence in him.

“That would explain why she had come in before you had. She had said something about a Nohrian custom about gift giving, that the Princess Elise had told her.”

Brows drawing together, Marx can feel the worry eating at him again. “Yes… it is a custom to give gifts on birthdays.” Marx did not add that it was kept to children nowadays, as he had a feeling of how that may have been interpreted. 

Ryouma must have understood, as his eyes dropped to the arm Marx held behind his back. “We do not normally give gifts back home, I have to say.”

That was what Sakura had said too, when Marx had proposed the idea to her. “I do not mean to offend—”

Holding up a hand, Ryouma smiles again. “You can hardly offend me, Prince Marx. Present or no, just having you here is enough for me.” Ryouma continues to mumble something that vaguely suggests he had forgotten his own birthday, and Marx takes a deep breath.

There was no waiting after a small afterthought like that. Marx knew Ryouma to be the man to not sleep for several days if he had his way, and as he is pushing the parcel into Ryouma’s chest, something in him tightened almost sympathetically. Not lingering on that thought, Marx clasps his hands behind his back once more, staring at a spot over Ryouma’s shoulder, as Ryouma fumbles with the present.

He says something in Hoshidan, that Marx might never understand, and he repeats a phrase as he turns the present over once more. Carefully, he unties the little bow, fingers pulling at the paper at an increasing pace. Marx realised, after a moment, that Ryouma was beaming at the present, not even fully undone, as if it was the most wonderful thing he had seen in his life. Warmth flooded through Marx, and he twisted his hands. There was a little bit of pride in him, that tempered the nerves. 

Taking the paper before they left a mess, Marx watched Ryouma turn the present over, now completely revealed. The worry returned, that it was weak as far as gifts went. Marx had seen it in a town several weeks back, and it had stayed at the bottom of his pack, waiting a perfect time to be presented. Revelation that it was Ryouma’s birthday certainly helped.

“Marx,” Ryouma murmurs, turning the book over in his hands. His voice drops, and as he looks back up, Marx cannot deny the way his heart jumps in his throat. “Thank you.”

Despite feeling like he needed to provide some justification for the present, Marx does not say a word. Ryouma flips through the book (backwards, of course, but Marx had long since commented on how Hoshidan’s read), thumbs running over the gold edging, and the red leather cover. As he turns the book over once more, he finally comes to the page that Marx could feel his face warm at, and he does not give Ryouma a chance to comment.

Taking Ryouma’s face in his hands, Marx kisses him fiercely, making the both of them stumble back. Ryouma makes a noise, high in the back of his throat, but he does not let the book go. Free hand sitting at the curve of Marx’s neck, he twirls his fingers into Marx’s hair and tugs. A little too hard for a time of day, as Marx may have told him any other time, but he groans into the kiss, teeth nipping at Ryouma’s lower lip as they part briefly. 

When Marx finally opens his eyes, he finds Ryouma staring at him with a heavy lidded gaze. Perhaps it would not be such a bad idea after all. His stomach was no longer turning over out of concern, but at the simple warmth he felt, pressing so close to Ryouma and feeling the outline of him through his dress. Dropping a hand, Marx followed how the neckline had fallen open, and pressed it wider still as he traced lower. But he stops, just at the solid skin above Ryouma’s navel, and has to force himself to look up.

“May I see you later?” he asks, quietly, as if someone may have been listening in. 

Ryouma licks his lips, and his fingers wrap around Marx’s wrist, taking his hand further south, until Marx all but cupped him through his dress. Marx groaned again, far louder this time, as he felt how hard Ryouma was. In his own pants, his cock throbbed, and it took everything not to thrown Ryouma down there, and have him.

“Please,” Ryouma says, and releases Marx’s hand, very unwillingly. Palm sliding, until his fingers linked with Marx’s, Ryouma pulls his hand up to his lips. Kissing every knuckle, Ryouma’s gaze does not waver. “I look forward to tonight,” he whispers, and finally lets Marx go.

Perhaps timing was on their side, as there was a knock at the door. Marx steps back, as Ryouma moves towards his pack, hiding the little book away as Camilla enters the room. His sister does not seem as surprised as Marx may have preferred, but she simply smiled, saying nothing apart from: “Kamui has called a council, for the move towards the next town.”

Finding his voice, Marx keeps a level gaze. “Of course. If you do not mind, I will join you Camilla.”

That seems to get her, but she welcomes him to walk beside him. Marx only turns at the door, as Ryouma mentions he will be a few steps behind, and nods. As he walks beside Camilla, Marx does think that he should have taken some time as Ryouma had, taking careful steps, so that he would not need to readjust himself any further.

The council drags, and Marx refuses to be distracted by how Ryouma did not seem to look away. Ryouma seemed intent on not hiding his actions either, if the nudge in his side from Camilla was any indication. Marx does not react, and keeps his attention on how Kamui discussed their next course. He did note, however, that his attention may have been too direct, with how Kamui began to talk faster, until it was called at Leon’s insistence. There was a snide comment from the younger Hoshidan prince, that Leon reacts to far too impassively, but he lets not time slide by to linger on how his younger sibling was behaving. 

Walking beside Camilla out of the door once more, Marx hoped he remained impassive, even as he apologised to Kamui. “Marx,” Camilla teases, “you seem a little tense.”

“I—well,” he pauses, and knew that his sister was aware. “I _am_ tense, I suppose.”

Camilla’s brow quirks, and she takes Marx into another room, out of earshot. “Is this what you had spoken of earlier?”

“I would prefer you did not repeat such a thing out loud.” Gods, Marx could feel his ears burn at how Camilla seemed to light up, enjoying such a thing too much.

“I did not mean to interrupt you earlier, had I known,” she laughs, lightly, “I could tell that Prince Ryouma was less than pleased with me during the meeting.”

Marx does not comment, and feels the rest of him warm further. “I am rather unsurprised.” 

“And you give the same feeling as well, my dear brother. I will not keep you.” Her teasing ceases, all at once, replaced by something that Marx supposes is was encouragement. It just made his worries double. Yet, Camilla places a hand on his arm, and lowers her voice. “As I promised, I will set up the enchantments to not allow you to be heard.

“Marx, I am sure Prince Ryouma would understand no matter what.”

That clipped at his pride more than it should have, but Marx thanks her. “I did not mean for you to have found out… _this_ way, Camilla. I apologise.” And it was true. Camilla did not judge him, as she never had, instead delighted, and offered to help even further in ways Marx would prefer to forget. 

She laughs. “I had always suspected, dear brother. Prince Ryouma looks at you so fondly, I just never thought that you would feel the same.”

Marx does not feel a need to respond, as Camilla seemed to find her answer in his face. Patting him once more on the arm, with a promise that an hour after dinner the enchantments would be up, she leaves him. And he waited, as patiently as he could, eating with his retainers, so as to not accidentally run into Ryouma and ruin his plans.

As he is walking back into the fortress, Marx is careful not to take the stairs two at a time. Whilst he may have left his retainers a little hurried, neither Pieri nor Lazwald had called after him, and Marx wonders if they should have. It would have made the blood not rush through his ears, as he stepped closer and closer. Maybe it was a small grace, that it had not rushed entirely south, however, as he knocks gently once more. On the old wood, Marx notes a burn around the keyhole, one that may have not looked out of place against several scrapes along the wall, had he not recognised that particular brand of magic so well. 

Ryouma opens the door this time, his dress just as sloppily tied as Marx had left him hours earlier, except it was not his doing this time. For a moment, Marx wonders if Ryouma had been sleeping, until the front of his shirt was grabbed, and he is pulled the rest of the way in, door shutting behind him. Upon him in an instant, Ryouma is all hurried kisses and teeth nipping, hands running up his sides as he attempts to undress Marx. And Marx bows into the touch, one hand undoing buttons as the other tugs Ryouma’s dress down his shoulders, exposing skin. 

Losing himself in how Ryouma touches him, kisses him, holds him, Marx stays pinned against the door, slowly finding himself sliding down until he can feel his knees complain about the angle. “Pr-prince Ryouma,” he mumbles, although he does not want to when his shirt is finally being pulled from him. “Wait, just a moment…”

Marx knows that Ryouma hears him, and with some reluctance manages to still, even if his thumb still runs a slow pattern along his hip, calloused skin catching on a wound that was slowly beginning to heal. It was a different sensation to what Marx had expected, and he nearly gives in to Ryouma, simply and easily. But there was a timeframe, a limited amount of magic being poured into their moment, and Marx did not want to let it go to waste.

Holding onto his shoulders, Marx lets his weight give out, and they manage to reach the floor, a tangle of limbs and clothing. Perhaps it was too much for him, as he insisted on pulling Ryouma’s dress a little higher, so that he was not tempted. 

“Did something happen, Marx?” Again, voice low and accented, rolling over his name. Marx only wished to hear his name on Ryouma’s tongue, and forced himself to look up.

“Replicate yourself.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Ah, too forceful. Marx frowned, as he tried to choose his next words. “Do you remember that conversation we overheard…”

“About how the men had been in a local whorehouse?” Ryouma finished, brows raising as if did not quite follow. Or he did, and he was just pulling Marx along. 

Marx did not let it deter him, nor how Ryouma’s hand dropped to the band of his pants, pushing them lower. “One of them had suggested… replicate… Stop touching me there, please.”

Ryouma laughs, as he palms Marx through the front of his pants. “I remember. Quite clearly, how the man had described it.” Shifting closer, Ryouma presses his lips lightly to Marx’s, mumbling a “I did not think you were interested.”

All at once, his restraint breaks, when Ryouma slips his hands finally into his pants, hands at his cock, stroking him thoroughly. “It is all I _can_ think of.”

They both moan, lowly, at the reveal, or it may have been the touch. Marx is unsure, but with how Ryouma was handling him, firm strokes from base to tip, thumbing the head of his cock, he finds he does not really mind at all. Not in the slightest, as he returns the favour, pulling Ryouma closer, thighs agains this waist, digging through the mounds of material that Ryouma insisted on wearing. Swearing under his breath, Marx did not notice he had slipped back into his mother tongue, until Ryouma asked him to do it again.

Pressing their foreheads together, Ryouma looks at him clearly, for a moment only, until his eyes slid shut as he moaned. Marx follows, squeezing his eyes shut, as Ryouma pressed his thumb against the vein on the underside of his cock. 

And then, there was another set of hands. Cracking his eye open just enough, Marx can see double, and he comes at just the thought. Ryouma says something, that is absolutely lost on Marx, as he bucks up into the hands, holding them there. Tension wrought him tight, and Marx does not recall being made to stand, but he was strung up between them. “Ryouma?” he mumbles, and is not quite sure which one to look at. 

“This is… quite strange.” Ryouma grunts, or perhaps, both of them do. Lowering Marx onto the bed, they made fast work of their clothing. Marx did not think how strange it really was, to think of Ryouma as a multiple, but he does not linger on it, as his legs are free of his pants, and Ryouma (which one?) kisses the inside of his ankle.

Reaching out for Ryouma, he gathers one close and kisses him as sloppily as he had been several weeks ago drunk. Except this time he dissolves into little more than panting, as Ryouma’s mouth runs over his cock, encouraging it somewhat. 

Marx does not feel he has a chance to linger on much of anything, with how quickly they were moving. Or was Marx just caught up, not minding trailing behind as he is seated, sat, pulled up. He cannot make much of the situation, just accepts how Ryouma holds him, arms around his shoulders, temple against his. Behind him, Ryouma’s hands (which pair? he truly does not know), slide down to his ass, fingers barely pressing in and Marx feels himself push back. Too overwhelmed, Marx feels like a stranger peeking in, as he does not recognise himself.

Slick fingers press in, and Marx is thankful, on the brink of weeping as his cock is taken once more, gentle strokes that do not match the man behind him. But they are the same, his mind supplies, as Marx is not sure which way to push, who to follow, and simply lets himself be taken once more. Nails digging into Ryouma’s shoulders, Marx hoped it would be able to tell them apart.

And yet when he looks over his shoulder, and sees Ryouma bowed over him, scissoring him, Marx can just barely see the faint lines beginning to appear. Maybe it was a bad idea, as they both give him that same wild grin, that he loved (loved?) so fiercely, a snap decision he may pay for yet, as he does not recall coming a second time.

One of them (both of them) mumble something about Marx’s impatience, but it disappears into the background. Fingers removed, Marx still cannot see through the white, that crackles and sparks behind his eyelids. He can feel Ryouma kissing and touching, hands smoothing over his hair, another comment that he does not quite catch.

When Marx does see, he can see Ryouma holding the leather ties that he vaguely remembers from hours earlier, memory too hazy to think clearly. 

“Is this alright?” Ryouma asks, both of them still as they wait.

“Gods, _please._ ”

Marx’s hands are bound, a little too loosely, perhaps, but he does not mind. Not in the slightest. Ryouma settles behind him once more, hands on his hips, guiding him. “ _Ryouma!_ ” A strangled cry, as he’s lowered onto Ryouma’s cock. He feels full, far too full, as Ryouma presses up, taking him further, harder still. It was as if the man grew more solid inside him, and Marx pressed his forehead against Ryouma’s shoulder, staring between them. Marx was not sure if his cock could make it back for a third time, but it twitched with each thrust.

Finally, they still, as Ryouma speaks to himself in Hoshidan, discussing something. Marx does not mind, as he closed his eyes and told himself to slow down. A wild fantasy was running away before him. Whilst he knew that he would never have been able to control the situation, not with how Ryouma had thrown himself into the feeling, Marx did once again see the mess he had made of himself, and grunted.

Ryouma moved only slightly, but it was enough to draw Marx’s body tighter than a wire, have him catch his breath and yet have his heart race. Hands were all over him at once, pressing here, touching there, trying to find the source of discomfort. It did little more than make him want to push Ryouma back and ride him hard, all the nerves in his body hot, ready to burst.

“Marx…” Ryouma’s voice was unusually quiet, and Marx still could not tell which one was speaking, “if you do not want to…”

As if experimentally, Marx took the open invitation for the lead, and rocked his hips, gently so as if he was still testing the waters. It took everything not to let himself hiss when Ryouma’s cock twitched. “Please, keep going.”

Those hands are back almost immediately, and then Ryouma is behind him all at once, fingers teasing the muscles in his back, lips drawing across his shoulder blades. “He will be fine.” It is Ryouma’s voice, but it is softer, almost sweeter than the voice Marx knows so well. Marx cannot quite discern if he likes it more, but when it is at his ear, as a finger circles his hole, he tells Marx how good he looks, and Marx decides he likes it just fine.

“Marx will not break.” Whilst the comment is directed to the Ryouma in front, it could be to them both. They shared a mind, and with the slip in conversation, Marx wises he could laugh at how ridiculous the situation was.

As the conversation drops, Marx notes how the warmth leaves his back, and he turns slightly, just enough to see Ryouma again, oil over his fingers. This Ryouma has longer hair, and it covers his eyes just a little, but when his head drops Marx cannot see them anymore. He wants to move, to call, but Ryouma looks up, such a look in his eye that Marx feels himself burn. Marx moves on instinct, fingers curling into that almost too long hair, pulling the head close until their lips crash and move. It is more a clink of teeth and slide of tongue but it has him panting and pumping his own cock. 

Ryouma grunts, and pulls him away before pushing his own tongue into Marx’s open mouth, tongue running along the roof of his mouth and teasing his own out. Far too much, and Marx inhales sharply, nearly going dizzy from just how much air he needs and how little he is getting. 

He is too enveloped by Ryouma, that all he breathes in is him, and it has his head begin to buzz, that he does not feel the hand sliding to where he and Ryouma are joined, only vaguely hearing the “relax,” before a finger slips in as far as it can go. 

Ryouma’s hands grip his cheeks, spreading him further and there was that heat along his spine again, that has him grip Ryouma’s shoulders until they bruise, has him curl back against Ryouma and pant out “Ryouma.”

It was a strange sensation, no real pain just yet. But having both Ryouma’s cock and Ryouma’s finger inside of him was still foreign. When the finger curled, he pressed his mouth to the shoulder in front to silence himself, and when he felt a second finger slide inside he bit down, barely registering Ryouma’s breathless moan at the sudden sting.

“Was that good?” Ryouma asked, somewhere behind him with that teasing voice of knowing exactly how it felt. But, underlying it all, the tone shook, and Marx revelled in that.

Marx pushed his hips back when Ryouma slowed down, having them both groan simultaneously. As if drawn in, the same set of lips along his neck and brushing his temples all at once. As if on instinct, fingers curled, Marx moaning at the contact whilst Ryouma squirmed beneath him, legs shaking at the feeling.

“Hurry up.” It was Ryouma’s turn to call this, which had Marx laugh out loud. This was ridiculous, a ridiculous notion because of some idle talk between soldiers, and the identical looks of concern on their faces only had him shake harder with laughter. Too much, it was too much for him.

“Are you alright, Marx?” There was that honeyed voice in his ear, fingers sliding out as if Marx’s laughter was to cover discomfort. Of all times for him to care. For both of them to. Which one was it who spoke again?

"Yes," Marx said. He was still feeling a bit breathless, and tears were budding at the corners of his eyes. Still laughing softly, he leaned forward and wiped them clean on the curve of Ryouma's shoulder. “It is just..."

"Hmm?" Ryouma said. He was apparently trying his best to look serious, but when those fingers started moving again, his expression cracked into a smile. Ryouma averted his gaze with an irritated look on his face, but did not say anything. The next time he moved his hand he pushed his fingers a little deeper, and Marx let out a long, slow breath in response.

Marx did not manage a rseponse, only a long, simple groan. He began rocking his hips with the movement of Ryouma's fingers; it was starting to feel strangely good thanks to the care that he was taking with him. In front of him, Ryouma too was gently moving inside of him to stay hard, and the gentle friction only added to the pleasure that was building in his stomach. 

There was a few seconds of silence, during which there was an exchanged another look over the top of Marx's head. Just as Marx had begun to question whether it was Ryouma who would pull out, Ryouma laughed and eased a third finger inside of Marx. A burn, that was not nearly as bad this time, filled him. But Ryouma moved around his body to kiss him as a distraction nonetheless. Marx did not need such a kiss, but there was no denying that it was good; Ryouma's tongue pressed lightly into his mouth and teased him in a way that made him feel light-headed with warmth. When Ryouma's fingers found a sensitive spot inside of him, he moaned before he could stop himself and felt his muscles tighten around Ryouma's fingers and Ryouma's cock. Ryouma squirmed under Marx, breathing shallow as he watched on.

Ryouma had just finished sucking on Marx's lower lip when he pulled away and hissed in surprised pain; Ryouma had craned his neck upwards and nipped at Ryouma's earlobe to get his attention. Ryouma looked like he was on the verge of picking Ryouma up and physically removing him from the room, but he stopped when he saw the strained expression on Ryouma's face.

"You are taking too long."

"But Marx..." Ryouma started, seemingly unsure of why he was protesting at all. Marx moved then, gasped as Ryouma's fingers pressed against his prostate once more.

“It is fine,” he reassures them. Having given up on which one to worry about more, Marx slid his hips forward. “Please, Ryouma.”

Maybe that had completely broken whatever resolve Ryouma still had to pull out at any given moment. Ryouma turned away and slicked his own cock with lube, hissing lightly at the sudden stimulation. Turning his head slightly, Marx watched as that hand twisted around himself, pumping even as he crawled back over. Watching how thick Ryouma’s cock hung between his thighs, Marx felt the twinge of concern through the thick haze of lust. Maybe it was too late; hands run up along his spine, as Ryouma knew.

When Ryouma returned, fingers dripping with excess oil, Marx received one more press of lips — for good luck, he laughed. All three of them took a deep breath then, a pause long enough to make them all buzz with a certain amount of concern. And yet, Marx raised his hips, waiting.

As Ryouma moved forward, hesitation gone, pressing the head of his cock against his hole, Marx felt himself seize. Marx willed himself to calm, tried to relax and focus on the feeling of Ryouma's fingers running from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, before settling in the mess of his hair. It felt good, all of it did; once he was able to relax, he realised that there was not pain so much as there was pressure, constant and overwhelming and more than he had ever felt before. Another slow thrust forward had Marx feeling too full, as if he had been stretched too far, and he shook his head rapidly to signal for Ryouma to stop. Ryouma did so — maybe he had stopped before Marx had even been asked. Marx could not tell, biting his lip to stop himself.

"Marx... shall we stop?”

He thought he should have said yes. It was if his body was telling him to, with how his thighs seemed to spread wider, how, despite the pause, Ryouma’s cock — cocks, Marx corrected — still managed to grow harder in him. Leaning back against Ryouma, Marx lifted his still bound arms over Ryouma’s head, and pressed his hands flat against his chest. “Keep going.”

"Okay," Ryouma said, and Marx was glad that he didn't doubt his word. "I'm going to move."

Pressure filled him once more, not as painful but it was still bearing on too much, exhausting him. Marx could not hold back the whimper, as he dug his nails into Ryouma’s skin. Far too much sensation, and it was blinding him, taking away every sense with every push and pull. His hands were going numb, and his toes were tingling with a feeling he could not quite place.

Each thrust tested pain thresholds Marx had not thought he could go beyond, and he continued to maintain his silence, only little gasps leaving him as he bounced between them. Ryouma’s face was twisted into absolute concentration, and any other time Marx would have applauded just how much focus he had, had he not known they were holding out for his sake. 

It took a few more thrusts, a few more strokes of his cock, and a press of lips against his temple for him to finally moan. Pain had begun to fade, a mild after thought, overstimulation and the slow burn of arousal building at the forefront of Marx’s mind. Ryouma seemed to relax, all at once, as Marx gave him a slight nod. Marx is not sure he can maintain a volume of voice if he spoke, to ask for Ryouma to go faster.

But Ryouma understands, even if they still did not match pace. Maybe it was better for Marx, as he twitched alongside them with each slide of cock over cock. And yet when they did find a rhythm, a smooth, slow movement that went up all at once, Marx thought he might come again, a third and final time.

“Feel good?” Ryouma asked, but even he seemed to be struggling, voice hitching. It was the best sound Marx had heard out of him all night, and he was not sure if he could respond as casually as he hoped.

Ryouma laughed and thrust upward, his cock hitting a spot inside of Marx that made him clench around them both and moan. "You should see his face.”

Any intention to respond to such a comment was completely lost, as Ryouma moved too, so deep inside of him that he choked on his own breath, giving into the heat running up his spine with a sharp sob. His cock strained against Ryouma's stomach, the sensitive spot beneath the head pressed against Ryouma's navel by the weight of his body. Ryouma, behind him, peppered kisses along the back of his neck, teeth sinking down only once, as he thrust upwards once more. Jerking with the sudden assault, Marx grasped the back of Ryouma's hand, nails digging into skin as he tried to stop himself from coming.

Swaying on the edge, Marx opens his eyes a fraction, a struggle in and of itself. But it was the sight of Ryouma, leaning past him, to kiss himself, that had him race to catch up. Of all things he had thought about, watching as Ryouma pushed the hair out of his own face, as he took the kiss deeper, had that well in Marx burst open, and he simply leans back.

“I have always wanted to do that,” Ryouma simply says, when they part. It is the both of them who speak, once again, a mirrored grin, that suggests far too much, and Marx is not allowed to linger. Not at all, as Ryouma sharply thrusts upwards, as if knowing he was needed, and Marx moans out his relief.

Ryouma keeps moving, riding out his climax alongside Marx, until they were shaking from nothing left in them. Marx did not think that he could still feel anything in his lower half, but when Ryouma slowly and carefully pulls himself free, Marx thinks he may come once more. Perhaps he does, he does not know as he is guided to the other side of the bed. Marx felt boneless and exhausted, and his whole body seemed to throb all at once, no real point of origin or any sign of ending, with each heave of his chest.

Gradually, he opens his eyes, for maybe the last time, only to see bruises blooming along Ryouma’s shoulders, and thin raised lines on the back of Ryouma’s hand. Trying to push himself up, Marx is only met by protest, as Ryouma holds him down. Marx cannot find his voice, only receiving a light kiss, as it may keep him there.

Marx believes it just may have, as he watches as Ryouma’s fingertips brush over the bruises on Ryouma’s skin. A smirk plays at Ryouma’s lips, as he tips them forward all at once, reaching for his cock. There is a comment, and whether it was in the standard or in Hoshidan, Marx will never know. His eyes close heavy, as the last thing he sees is Ryouma sliding onto his lap.

**Author's Note:**

> i have no explanation for this I'm sure there are a million things i could say but its 2am and I'm TIRED and RYOUMAS BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!! (sex) yah woo enjoy i will think of something witty to say in the morning when i am awake
> 
> EDIT: i am now mostly awake and have come back to say: do not use oil as a lubricant i couldn't think of another way to say it. also pls have safe sex and use a condom bc idk animal parts weren't a good option either
> 
> hbd lobster man ily


End file.
